


The Wisest Course

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The <em>wisest</em> course doesn't always feel like the <em>right</em> one, and it is never easy.  (<em>Eventual</em> F!Hawke/Cullen.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thunder pounded above, and the rumble of it was so deep, so loud, the force of it seemed fit to shake the paintings upon the walls and rattle the glass in the panes.  The skies were leaden grey, clouds so thick they left the world as dark as dusk, though it was barely past noon, and the rain fell in nearly opaque sheets, sluicing down rooftops and gathering in the gutters, tiny currents that rushed through Hightown, cascading down stairwells.  It was dry within, but the weather outside, so full of noise, _unrest,_ suited the occupant’s mood.

There was no sugar-coating it. She knew that.  

Eliza Hawke was beyond such self-deception, anyway; there was no point in trying to lie to herself, no point in pretending things were fine when the truth was the furthest thing from it.  

 _Maker,_ she thought, swinging the greatsword against an invisible foe, _when did I become such a bloody cynic?_

That part was anyone’s guess—perhaps it had been the moments when she’d held her mother’s patchwork body, so wrong and foul, and watched the life—if it could indeed be called "life”—fade from her eyes. Or maybe it had been coming on slowly over the years; perhaps this cynicism was merely the end result of too much heartache, too much hurt, too many times thrust into situations too upside-down, too inside-out, too _wrong_ to make sense of, no matter how hard she tried.

Or perhaps she’d been lied to one too many times.

Something was different, something had changed between them somewhere along the way, her and Anders.  Eliza knew there was, of course, the chance things _hadn't_ changed, that they'd always _been_ this way, and she'd simply been… complacent.  In fact, complacency felt like a far too uncomfortable truth—complacency and distraction.  Maker knew she’d been _distracted_.  The question was, had she been too distracted to see _this_ unfolding?  It was an uncomfortable possibility, but one Eliza didn't want to consider just then; the when and how of it was less important than that it happened at all.

He'd lied to her.  Anders.  He'd _lied_.  More than that, he'd lied to her while _exploiting_ her affections, twisting words and actions and using them to make her feel… _obligated_ to do what he asked, simply because he’d asked it. Anders had known too well that if there had in fact been a potion to separate him from Justice (and, oh, how she doubted that was truly the spirit’s name anymore), he could have counted on Eliza’s assistance.  And he used that hope— _false_ hope—to guarantee her aid for as long as he could.  But there had never been a potion, never been any intent to separate him from that increasingly pervasive demonic presence.  He'd lied to her about the potion, and she had been led, acting both against her better judgment and under false pretenses.

Eliza Hawke was a great many things, but she was nobody's pawn.

“I suppose he figures he lied to _protect_ me" she spat, her grip tightening on the greatsword as she moved gracefully around the library -- the walls already bore a few gouges, and Bodhan had urged her to practice with something else.  

 _Something a bit duller, please, messere?_ And with that request he'd tried to offer her an old staff from his wares -- one cracked and aged, hardly worth more than a few coppers to sell, and utterly unmagical in someone like Eliza's hands anyway.  But the weapon had only served to remind her of _him_ , when she wanted no such reminder.   In any case, she far preferred the solid weight of her old greatsword, way it made her arms ache the longer she practiced — she even liked the way handling it made blisters rise on her palms.  Blisters that turned into calluses — and wasn’t that a nice thought?  If only other parts of her so hurt, so damaged, could harden like her palms and pads of her fingers.

"To protect me,” she said again, this time a snarl to her words as footwork complicated as any Orlesian ballet took her across the thick carpeting.  "Far more likely he was simply trying to protect _himself_."  

But then Eliza stopped sharply, the end of the blade dropping with a muffled clang upon the carpet, her right foot frozen upon the stair, and she _wondered_.  And she hated herself for wondering, but if Anders had lied to her so easily now—and he'd done it convincingly enough—had he done so _before_?  Had this been an isolated incident, or had he been making a habit of misleading her?  Had Eliza simply been too blind, too _in love_ to see it?  

The possibility left unsettling nausea twisting restlessly in her belly.  

She expected lies and half-truths from Isabela, and tall tales were Varric's stock in trade, but she expected _honesty_ from Anders, not deception from the man who lived under her roof and shared her bed.  Definitely not whatever half-assed "better to seek forgiveness than ask permission" bullshit he seemed to have embraced in the wake of this transgression.

 _Well.  At least one other lie has outed itself,_ she thought, chewing her lip as she twisted the pommel in her hands.  _He cannot love me—if ever he truly did._

And _that_ was a path she had no interest whatsoever in exploring, but she’d taken the first steps upon it, the ground unsteady and painfully rocky below her feet.  Now she’d started, she wasn’t quite sure she could turn back.

In Eliza’s most painfully honest moments, she believed what Anders seemed to love most was hating the templars, and the prospect of making them all pay.  She was increasingly less convinced his goals were even as altruistic as he claimed; having become gradually become less focused on justice for mages and more keenly pinpointed on gaining vengeance against every last templar, whether deserving of it, or not.  And worse — he didn’t seem to see the difference between the two.

The whole argument gave her a headache.  She'd seen villains on both sides, from Ser Alrik to Decimus.  Both sides had good men and flawed, heroes and monsters.  There was kindness and empathy at work on both sides, but it was drowned out by cruelty and anger, fogged further by a miasma of distrust.  Everyone was shouting so loudly that it was impossible to _listen_ and harder still to speak rationally and _make_ people listen.  Eliza could not help but sympathize with the mages—it was impossible for her not to.  She’d grown up around magic, knew better than many it was a force not to be toyed with, a tool, as useful or as deadly as the sharpest sword.  Father had taught Bethany to respect her magic as she ought to respect any other force of nature.

 _Lightning is dangerous when it strikes randomly_ , he'd once told her sister.  _And the danger is twofold when one little girl can control it._

Malcolm Hawke had taught _all_ his children that magic ought not to be used to serve man, _or_ enslave him.  It was not the sort of blasphemy Eliza repeated in polite company, for all she believed it.  Forcing mages to serve did nothing but engender resentment, as anyone with two eyes could plainly see, particularly now.  But neither had the Tevinters managed to get it right—Fenris was more than proof enough of that—and Malcolm Hawke had frequently expressed disgust and frustration with both the Circle _and_ the Imperium.

 _The moment a mage gives in to the urge to act like a fool, the rest of us pay the price,_ he'd muttered more than once whenever word had reached them about some blood mage causing trouble somewhere.  Eliza wondered what he'd think of Merrill, of _Anders_ , and she suddenly felt her father’s absence lance through her breast and her breathing hitched as she gritted her teeth and hefted the sword up, thrusting it forward just that much harder.  

In that moment, Eliza missed her father terribly.

 _That boy's no good for you, Lizzie.  There'd be hope for him if he could see past the end of his nose, but idiots who make deals with demons—and don't you look at me that way, little miss; he's a mage, and ought to have known better than to get himself into a mess like that—idiots who make deals with demons never end well. He wants to make the world burn, and to the Void with anyone who gets in his way._  

Eliza stopped again, her shoulders aching to the point of agony, blinking back tears brought on either by sore muscles, or her own conscience, sounding painfully like her father's voice.  She couldn't keep on this way, couldn't allow these thoughts to chase dizzily around her head.  She needed to stop.  She needed some air.

No.  She needed a drink.

Anders was upstairs in the bedchamber, scribbling furiously at the writing desk — Eliza knew as much without having to look.  She left without changing from her sweaty clothes, without even saying goodbye, hardly a surprise these days—they spoke less and less.  Her anger with him now was but a small price to pay for whatever it was he'd acquired in those underground caverns.  Eliza wondered if he thought she'd simply get over it in time, like a silly fit of pique or a foolish lovers’ spat.  

Eliza wondered if she'd get over it at all.  

A voice whispered up from the depths of her, from somewhere deeper than her heart, deeper than her soul:  _Not bloody likely._

_#_

Rain came down steady and hard, slicking the stones, but Eliza didn't bother hurrying.  The moisture felt cool against her hot face, and soon her short auburn hair was plastered boyishly against her head.  She walked through Hightown, but instead of taking her usual shortcut  to The Hanged Man, Eliza found herself making her way through Lowtown, and out to the docks.  The Gallows and Templar Hall were barely visible through the gloomy rain, and the longer she stood there, a small boat soon became visible.  It shepherded people across the water to and from the Gallows, not that many people _visited_ the Gallows, but there were a fair few who were frequent patrons of the marketplace there, and so there was a need for passage.

The boat docked and a handful of people willing to brave the damp disembarked.  As they did, several more stepped aboard, and it wasn’t until a gruff voice snarled, “You comin’, lass, or just committin’ the scene to mem’ry?” did Eliza step off the docks and onto the boat, handing over the ten copper fare, still not sure why.

The Gallows.  It wasn’t remotely on the way, not in the slightest bit convenient, but its gates were the only thing filling Eliza’s sight through the falling rain.  Eventually the little boat slowed, coming to a gradual stop and bumping not-entirely-gently against the dock.  Mindful of the slick gangplank, she stepped down upon the wet stones, far more solid under her feet than the boat on the choppy water, and made her wandering way to the courtyard.  The marketplace was perhaps not as busy as it might have been on a clearer day, but patrons still moved from stall to stall, table to table, haggling over the price of potions and weaponry.  She strolled slowly to an armor dealer, listening with only half an ear as the gentleman in question tried to sell her gauntlets she did not need.

Offering as polite a smile as she could muster, Eliza turned away from the collection of armor, suddenly catching sight of Knight-Captain Cullen across the courtyard.  It was then that the idea came—or perhaps not that moment, no, for the germ of such an idea had to have been taking root and growing for some time now.  It did not feel like a _new_ idea, just a newly acknowledged one.  

Either way, she hated it.

But then, she'd faced down blood mages and abominations before with only her sword, and those altercations had truly been a battle.  She needed proper skills—specialized skills—to fight them.  Being sympathetic to mages didn't mean turning a blind eye at those who abused their gifts, after all.  There was being sympathetic, and then there was being an idiot.

Eliza couldn't help but wonder which she'd actually been, lately.

She tried not to think about how frequently she saw a stranger staring back at her when she looked into Anders' eyes.  He barely held her, barely spoke to her, barely _looked_ at her anymore.  He left their bed in the dead of night, slipping back beneath the sheets scarcely an hour before dawn.  Eliza had no idea what he was doing, or what he'd already done—no idea what she'd unwittingly done _for_ him—but she knew on a level that was pure instinct she didn't like it.  She didn't like, didn't _trust_ this change in him.  

She began to wonder how long she hadn't trusted Anders.

Shoving this train of thought from her mind, she strolled up to the templar, who was tolerating the rain, if only just.  She had no quarrel with the templars—indeed, she’d done them favors on more than one occasion, and even if she did not agree with them entirely, nor did she paint them with a broadly evil and oppressive brush.

"Afternoon, Knight-Captain," she said, coaxing her features into a genial smile.  "How are you doing this fine and beautiful day?"

The templar knight-captain arched a sardonic brow at her.  "Beyond the rain, it's utterly glorious."

"Well, you know," she replied, slicking her bangs back and flicking the water from her fingertips. "Weather isn't everything."

His lips twitched slightly, belying faint amusement.  "Perhaps not, but it does make a difference when one is standing watch outside, however."

"Just be careful you don’t rust.  Horrible mess, that."

Here, the knight-captain let out a little laugh.  "A good thing silverite doesn't rust.  That could get ugly."

"Well, if it did, you could try hanging tiny oil cans from your belts,” she suggested, grinning more broadly and linking her hands behind her back — if her hands were hidden, then he wouldn’t see just how badly she was twisting them, picking at her cuticles.  “It’d be a positively fetching accessory, I'm sure."

"Fetching _and_ practical.  My, Hawke, you _are_ out to solve every last problem in Kirkwall, aren't you?"

"I do get such a warm glow from a job well done," Eliza replied, rocking back on her heels.

"You'd need such a glow, in this weather."  He glared a bit at the sky, then looked back at her.  "But enough of that—surely you didn't come all the way out in this wretched rain to make pleasant conversation about it.  Is there something I can do for you?"

Eliza took a deep breath, ignoring the way her heart had suddenly begun to pound in her chest, the way her stomach twisted into sick, lurching knots.  _Maker_ , but she was bad at betrayal.  "There is a matter I wish to discuss with you, but…" Pursing her lips in thought, she looked around.

He read her caution as just that—caution—and Eliza hoped she didn’t appear as guilty as she felt.  “But you'd rather not discuss it… here?"

She nodded, gesturing at the wet around them.  "Here.  In the rain.  It's a conversation better suited to somewhere dryer, after you're off-duty. Possibly with refreshment on hand."

He considered it for a moment, hazel eyes narrowing in thought and Eliza could practically see the gears churning in his head; she spoke before he could turn her down on principle.  "Know that I would never ask you to participate in anything that would jeopardize your integrity, Knight-Captain," she added quickly.  "The matter is nothing untoward, I assure you.  I merely… seek your advice and assistance. Whether you see fit to give it is entirely up to you."

“I… see," he replied, relaxing somewhat.  Eliza wondered what he _thought_ she was going to ask him and decided she’d rather not know.  "And where did you plan on meeting, ah… for…"  He blushed suddenly and coughed into his fist, reminding Eliza so vividly of his discomfiture when they talked about templar recruits visiting The Blooming Rose.

She schooled her laugh into a cough.  "I think The Hanged Man will more than suffice."

"We'll be able to speak privately there?"

She turned and started off for the Gallows gates, calling back over her shoulder, “No one will be able to hear us above the brawling."

 "Sounds charming," he replied on a dry chuckle.  "Very well, then, Hawke.  The Hanged Man it is."

 


	2. Chapter 2

The sheer enormity of what Eliza was considering pounded in her heart, and the moment the knight-captain was out of sight, she turned and hurried off, taking one of the boats back to Kirkwall proper.  The rain was coming down harder now, in thick, grey sheets that hampered her vision, but Eliza knew too well which twists and turns led the way to Lowtown, to The Hanged Man.  She could have found it with her eyes shut by now.  The familiarity of the route did a little—very little indeed—to distract her from what she’d just done.  What she was _considering._   The closer she got to The Hanged Man, the more what she was about to do became _real._

She was soaked through and shivering when she pushed into tavern -- a gust of wind blew in behind her, slamming the door sharply against the wall where it resounded with a deafening bang, but her entrance did little to interrupt the patrons.  It was one of the reasons she liked it here; it was the easiest thing in the world to blend in—here, anyone could become invisible.  Here _,_ there were no demands upon her time or person.  Here _,_ she wasn't the Champion of Kirkwall, she was simply _Hawke._  

Here, also, no one commented on her appearance, which bore an uncomfortable resemblance to that of a drowned nug at the moment.  Well, no one commented aside from Varric, who was upstairs in his suite, basking by the fire.  The rain falling down the chimney hissed and spat softly as it hit the flames, evaporating in tiny little bursts.  He looked up as she came in, his brows lifting in surprise at the sight of her.

"Maker's breath, Hawke, what did you do, _swim_ here?" he asked, gesturing at one of the serving girls—Edwina, Eliza believed her name was.  The woman sent him a glare, but after a rapid exchange of significant looks, she came back with a towel for Eliza.  

Eliza took it gratefully, rubbing it over her damp head and sending her hair up into haphazard tufts.  "For a storyteller," she drawled, once they were alone, "you've got quite a gift for communication of the non-verbal variety."

"It's a merchant thing,” Varric replied with a shrug. “I come by it honestly."  He paused, scratching his chin.  "Well.  Honest _might_ not be the best word, come to think of it.  But being able to tell someone something without using actual _words_ helps avoid unhealthy complications.  Like slit throats." 

"I figured there was a logical reason behind it."

He cocked a thick eyebrow at her.  “But is there a logical reason behind you showing up like you took a detour through the Waking Sea to get here?"

Eliza smiled despite herself.  “You don’t waste any time, do you?”  She looked down at the towel in her hands as her fingers slowly worryied the fabric.  “Best not beat around the bush, then,” she said slowly, lifting her eyes to the dwarf’s. "I… need to make use of your suite for a time, if I may.” 

If Varric was surprised, he didn’t show it.  In fact, he evidenced more shock at her drenched appearance in his rooms to begin with.  “I’ve said it a million times,” he told her with a shrug, “my palatial suite at The Hanged Man is your palatial suite at The Hanged Man.  But I've got to admit, I'm curious.  My door’s been open for years—why take me up on it now?"

She shifted, uncomfortably.  "It is a matter that requires some… discretion."

His brows lifted.  "And aren't I the very picture of discretion?"

Breathing a mirthless chuckle, Eliza replied, “I didn't realize discretion had quite that much chest hair."

The volley pleased him—things couldn’t be _so_ dire if she were willing to joke, she supposed—and he grinned, gesturing at himself.  "Yep.  This is discretion.  Manly, manly discretion.  What's up?"

And here was where the conversation became infinitely more complicated.  She let out a long, weary sigh and leaned her elbow against the tabletop, rubbing at her forehead.  "I don't quite know where to start."

"All good stories start at the beginning.  Try there."

The beginning?  With a frown, Eliza pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and tried to put her thoughts in order.  How did you find the beginning of a story if you weren’t sure where or when it all began?  _It all started when you told me I had to find that Grey Warden._   No, that wouldn’t do.  She exhaled hard through her teeth and pushed her fingers through her damp hair.  “Well, it’s…” she trailed off, grimacing.  Then, finally, she said, “You... did try to warn me."

That was all it took.  “So, this is about Blondie?”  Varric didn’t look surprised, and Eliza wasn’t sure if that was a good sign, or a bad one.  What he did look, however, was disappointed.  “Shit,” he muttered, evidently seeing the expression, whatever emotion it was he saw cross her face.  “What's he done?"  He did not, to his credit, say, _What’s he done_ now _?_

"That's the problem. I—I don't know,” Eliza replied.  She couldn’t sit still any longer and, draping the towel over the back of her chair, she stood and paced over to the fire; the crackling heat felt like bliss against her cold, damp clothes.  “And he won't tell me."

From the corner of her vision, she watched as Varric twisted his chair around and leant forward, resting elbows on his knees.  She glanced his way as he steepled his fingertips together and peered at her over them, fixing Eliza with a gaze so intent, she realized suddenly how _easy_ it was to see nothing but the genial storyteller in Varric—so easy even _she_ was guilty of it, time to time.  But now it was impossible to overlook the sharp eyes that never missed a target; they certainly weren’t missing it now.  “And you're maybe wondering why this guy you trust enough to live in your home is keeping secrets?"

Eliza looked back down into the fire.  The flames licked hungrily at the logs until the grooves that ran through the bark glowed orange against the blackened wood.  “That's part of it, yes."

One eyebrow lifted.  “And the other parts?"

Here Eliza grimaced, wrinkling her nose.  Of all the things she didn’t want to admit, _this_ was probably the hardest — that she’d let him _get away with it_ so far.  That he’d lied to her, and she hadn’t called him on it.  Eliza was increasingly disgusted with herself and she could _hear_ it thickening in her voice as she said,  “More than keeping secrets,” she said, turning from the fire and facing Varric, “he lied—he’s _been_ lying to me.”

"You're shitting me,” Varric blurted, staring at her.  “I mean, I had a hunch it wasn’t great, but I didn’t think things were _that_ bad.”  He paused, looking at her steadily for a long minute.  “ _Are_ you shitting me, Hawke?  Because if you are… well, it’s a lousy joke, so we’d have to have a talk about that.”

Eliza was suddenly exhausted, having relieved such a burden, and she went back to her chair, dropping into it, hard.  “Maker, I wish I were."

"So this isn't some clandestine romantic assignation you need my digs for, but…"

They’d been too deep in conversation to hear the approaching clank of armor, but just then, Knight-Captain Cullen appeared, uncertain, in the doorway.  "Hawke," he said, glancing briefly at Varric, long enough to place him, then nodded.  “Forgive me if I’m interrupting.  One of your... ah, compatriots downstairs said you'd gone this way."

" _Blast_ ," Eliza hissed, covering her eyes with one hand.  "Isa _bela_."

"I'll handle Rivaini,” Varric said, pushing out of his chair.  “You…" he looked briefly from Eliza to Cullen and back again, then let out a breath that sounded too much like a sigh.  "You do what you need to do.  Just know: whatever you decide?  I’ve got your back.  No matter what.”  

It was… reassuring to hear, and Eliza _needed_ reassurance just then.  She sent Varric a tired wave as he left.  Eliza trusted the dwarf more than nearly anyone else at this point, and she trusted he'd convince Isabela that clandestine meetings with a templar didn't actually _mean_ whatever it was she _thought_ it meant.  Maker only knew what he'd actually tell the pirate, but Eliza had confidence enough in Varric that she knew he'd either convince Isabela nothing was going on, or he'd convince her to keep quiet about it.  

She waved at the long table in Varric's suite.  "Please, sit.  If you're still on duty, perhaps—”

He approached a chair, his armor jangling softly with every step. "No, I'm… I'm off duty.”  

He still looked... _wary,_ Eliza decided.  It did little for her own nerves aside from the fact that wariness gave them something in common.  "Two pints, then?" she suggested helpfully, with a mild and—she dearly hoped—harmless smile.  "I'm sure they'll be… mostly drinkable."

The templar laughed a little and lowered himself into a seat as Eliza scraped her chair around, the better to face him.  They regarded each other for a moment, and Eliza could feel him trying to size her up, trying to anticipate her request— _something._   It occurred to her the fact that he was so uncertain should probably… bolster her somewhat; this was a man who would not agree to help her blindly.  He would not trust her unless she proved herself trustworthy.  That knowledge was, she had to admit, a welcome change from secrets and evasion.

Cullen spoke first:  "I can't pretend to know what any of this is about, Hawke.”

"No,” she sighed, looking down at her hands.  “I don't imagine you would.  Or that you _could_ know."  She tapped her fingers together, thinking quickly; she hadn't thought things through _quite_ this far.  Indeed, she hadn't really expected Cullen to agree to meet her at all.  Now she was left with the task of figuring out what in all the bloody Void to tell him.  

Easy, really.

Clearly disclosing everything wasn't an option; there was too much _she_ still didn't know, and there was a chance, however slim, that Anders hadn't actually done anything… _unforgivable_.  Lies and evasion were bad enough, but Eliza was hesitant to take any sort of definitive action when she knew so little of what was truly going on. Then again, maybe, just _maybe_ , Anders was counting on her caution, counting on her to wait and watch and see.  And damned if that was a possibility made something clench icily in her gut.  Eliza preferred making _informed_ decisions—if she hadn’t the information (or if someone was keeping information from her), she waited and looked and asked question after increasingly uncomfortable question until she had what she needed.  Maker hang it, she _was_ cautious.

Perhaps too cautious?

 _Maybe it’s time to change that little strategy,_ she thought darkly.  After a few moments more of consideration, to say nothing of mental preparation, Eliza leaned back in her chair, letting out a deep breath.   Before she could say a word, another of the serving girls whisked in and thunked down two mugs of frothy ale solidly on the table.

"Compliments of messere Varric," she said, then gave the templar an openly appraising look before winking at Eliza.  

"Thank you,” she replied.  “That… will be all."

Cullen, however, seemed not to have noticed the serving girl in the least, instead leaning forward and resting his forearms against the table as he regarded Eliza. "If you don't mind my saying, whatever it is, it appears to be giving you a great deal of trouble."

At this she let out a small, choked laugh.  "You don't know the half of it," she muttered, rubbing one hand over her face before looking up and meeting the templar's eyes.  

Knight-Captain Cullen. 

 A templar.  

The enemy.  

Granted, Cullen didn't look like much of an enemy at all, particularly at that point.  He was watching her quietly, and when Eliza let herself meet his eyes—though not without feeling the burn of shame and guilt for sitting here at all—she saw only curiosity there.  Wariness too, but something else, something like patience, or some close kin to it.  That he was here was enough to prove he was willing to at least hear her out, and at that moment Eliza needed someone to listen.  Someone who didn't... _know_ her.  

No, he didn't feel like the enemy; he felt like _hope._

“Something is… clearly troubling you,” Cullen observed with quiet certainty.  Eliza pulled her hands from the table and let them rest in her lap, where she felt her fingers slowly curl themselves into fists as she strove to find something that might center her.

"I… you have very specific skills as a templar, Knight-Captain, do you not?" she asked him, barely recognizing her own voice, so quietly and dully did she ask the question.

"Yes.  Though I hardly think it’s entirely unknown to you, but we are trained to disarm magic and incapacitate mages and maleficarum.  I… I assume that's what you meant?" He chuckled and shook his head.  "You already know more about swordsmanship than more than half my men, after all."

She smiled faintly at that, ducking her head at the compliment.  "Yes, well.  I practice."

"That much is evident.  Would that the other half of my men trained so diligently, but… forgive me, I thoroughly doubt swordsmanship is why you asked me here."

Clearly there would be no putting this off.  _Very well,_ she thought, steeling herself.  "You aren't... entirely wrong, as it happens.”  She wrapped her hands around the mug, wishing it was filled with hot tea rather than cold ale.  The fire, at least, still burned brightly and warmly at her back, warding off the deep chill determined to seep into her bones.  "These... other skills," she began, carefully.  "The ones you use to fight blood mages and maleficarum.  Can… anyone learn them?"

"In theory, yes; they are warriors' techniques not unlike other sorts of mental training I'm sure you've undergone.  Even you could…”  Trailing off, he paused, narrowing his eyes at her.  “Wait.  Is... _that_ what this is about?" he asked.  “You want to—” stopping suddenly, Cullen looked around and then leaned even further across the table, dropping his voice.  “You want to _learn the templar arts_?”

Eliza drew in a deep, steadying breath and nodded.  Her heart was thumping uncontrollably against her ribs, and the knowledge, the _implications_ of what she was asking clenched and twisted and flipped in her stomach.  “Things are getting more dangerous in Kirkwall, as well you know,” she answered, fighting to keep her voice steady.  “I would like to be able to protect its people to the best of my abilities.  And if that means… acquiring a new skill set, then so be it."

He lifted an eyebrow at her.  “And I shouldn't be concerned at all that you count two apostates in your company?" 

"On the contrary,” Eliza countered, “I think you should find reassurance in that."  She quirked an eyebrow back at him.  "Unless you suspect I'll divulge these trade secrets of yours and we’ll concoct some amazing plan to counteract your counteracting measures?”

The look he gave her was a long, level one and she could almost _see_ his decision to ignore her jape, or take it for what it was, and she was thankful for it.  "I... believe you are more honorable than that.  Truly, you would _use_ such skills against one of your own, then?"

She didn’t hesitate as she answered, “As surely as I would draw my sword on any of them who intended to me or others harm.  I trust my people, Knight-Captain—”  Oh, but _that_ was a lie. She wondered if the Maker considered it even more of a sin if one lied to a templar.  Probably, she decided.  Eliza stopped, biting back the words as she swallowed hard and collected herself, tamping down on the sudden flare of temper.  She wasn't even sure if it was directed at the Cullen, at Anders, or at _herself_. 

  _It is no different than searching out a newer, sharper sword, or hunting down the perfect rune for a weapon,_ she told herself, sternly.  Finally, Eliza pulled her hands from her lap and lay them flat on the table as she inclined her head.  "You and I disagree on many things, serah, but we do not disagree that blood mages are dangerous.  Abominations are likewise dangerous.  If…if my mother had known how to defend—”

"Hawke,” he countered with a brisk shake of his head, “even those who know how to defend themselves cannot always succeed.  Consider Wilmod.  Of anyone, he ought to have known how to defend himself, how to resist—”

"And look at Keran,” Eliza interrupted, “who seemed to manage it just fine, without any ill effects,” she reminded him, tapping her temple pointedly.  "By your own admission he has proven himself uncompromised so far.  I want to be more useful to Kirkwall, and I want to help keep her safe.  If I _can_ indeed learn those skills, if I am able to, how is it any sort of a detriment to have yet another person qualified to deal with such dangers?”

He looked at her again, and Eliza felt faintly uncomfortable sensation of sweat prickling her skin, sliding down her spine.  A miracle she could tell it from the rainwater.

"Tell me one thing."

Eliza licked her lips and nodded.

Narrowing his eyes shrewdly at her, Cullen said, “You say you would use these skills on one of your own if need be."

"Yes.  And I meant it.”

"Then why, if you acknowledge that magic and mages are dangerous, _why_ do you side with the mages so frequently?"

That wasn't the question she'd been bracing herself for, and for that Eliza felt a ripple of relief.  This, at least, was a question she could answer easily and honestly.  "Because my father was an apostate—escaped from Kirkwall's own Circle, in fact.  He was an apostate, and still a good man.  He was no abomination, and the topic of blood magic angered him.  He knew it was a harder life, being an apostate, but though he fled the templars and spent so much of his life—and ours—running from them and evading them and hiding from them, he did not begrudge them their duty.  There are… there are mages who _go_ bad, and while, yes, some of them are simply _bad_ , or give in to temptation, others still fear their own abilities so much that they yield control to a demon, rather than take responsibility for themselves.  And, yes, there are people who need to be protected from those individuals.”

The knight-captain sighed hard, then took a long pull from the mug.

“I fear this is a matter we could debate all day and well into the night, you realize.”

This time Eliza allowed herself a smile, taking no pains to force it.  “Well.  You _did_ ask.”

“Indeed I did,” Cullen replied ruefully, raking a hand through his damp hair, sending the close-cropped curls into disarray.  “Let me… let me _think_ about it.  I promise nothing—indeed I’ll tell you right now, I’m inclined to refuse out of principle—but I will give your... _request_ all due consideration.  You are asking a great deal of me, more than I think you even suspect or can begin to understand.  However, neither can I overlook the fact that you _have_ proven more than once that you put the safety of Kirkwall first.  And, given the templars’ own…” Cullen trailed off with a grimace, “dwindling popularity, perhaps you'll have success where we have failed.  Allow me time to think about it, and I will be in touch.  I'll send you my reply—”

"No," Eliza broke in, shaking her head.  "Contact me through Varric."  When he looked perplexed she added, "It would be better for both if there was nothing written—tangible—between us.  They are skills you shouldn't share, and—by virtue of that—I shouldn't have.  I'm not in a mood to incriminate either of us more than I’ve managed to already."

He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes as he regarded her carefully a moment, leaving Eliza feeling as if he’d just taken her measure (again), but this time found himself surprised.  “Very well, Hawke.  One way or another, I will be in touch."

One way or another.  It was all she could really ask for.


	3. Chapter 3

 

It was nearly two full weeks before Eliza heard from the knight-captain.  They were two weeks fraught with pacing and annoyed, expectant looks at Varric, who simply shook his head in silent answer to her equally silent question.  Then, one day, Varric sent a note summoning her to the Hanged Man for a friendly pint.  When she arrived, he held a folded letter between his fingers.  The wax seal bore the templar crest.

"Looks like the templar’s come to a decision," he said, handing her the envelope.  

Taking it into her hands, Eliza marveled at the weight of the envelope, then turned it over in her hands and stared down at the dark red splotch of wax.  "It would appear so," she murmured.  And yet, she still hesitated.

Nearly a full minute ticked by before Varric said anything.  “Are you going to open that up or paint a picture of it?"

She sighed, finally popping the seal; the wax snapped audibly.  "It would have made a very poor mural, I suppose."  Her fingers faltered momentarily before she pushed through her hesitation and flipped the envelope open, pulling free the note.  It was a single sheet of parchment, bearing one short line of text and a signature.  Eliza read the line several times to her herself before Varric spoke up.

“For crying out loud, Hawke, I always considered myself a master of suspense, but you're putting me to shame here.  What's it say?"

She blinked, reading and then re-reading the words to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood anything.  “I’m… I'm to meet him in three days time at the Wounded Coast,” she read faintly, looking at Varric over the sheet of paper.  "He's agreed to train me."

Varric watched her carefully for a few moments; when he didn’t see whatever he’d expected to see in her reaction, he asked, “And that's... good, right?"

Eliza frowned, folding the note again and sinking down into a chair.  "Maker, I don't even _know_ anymore."  She dropped the note on the table and rested her head in her hands.  Before she knew it, Varric had plunked down beside her.

"It seems to me the last time we talked about this, you were in a rush.  So maybe it's time we _talked_ about this.  Blondie's my friend too.  So spill it.  What’s going on?”

She folded the note in half again, and then once more, folding and refolding as she organized her thoughts.  “The sela petrae and drakestone,” she said quietly.  “You… I’m sure you recall hunting for it.”

“I’m not liable to forget a stink like that anytime too soon, no,” he said, grimacing at the memory of the stink in those tunnels.

“It was meant to be a… potion, to separate him from Justice.”  She went back to folding the note and unfolding it.  The words lodged in her throat, which turned out not to matter a great deal.

“And when you say _meant to be_ , what you’re actually saying is that it _wasn’t._ ”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.  He told me what I wanted to hear to ensure my help.”  Grimacing, Eliza picked up the discarded envelope and began tearing it into thin strips.  “ _Which_ , as I’m sure you’ve by now figured out, means that whatever it is he’s concocting, it’s nothing he wants me to know about.”  She sent Varric a sidelong glance and found him watching her with a troubled, disappointed expression.  “Which means it can’t be anything _good._ ”

“Yeah, I’m… putting that together myself, thanks.”

“So I’m not quite sure what my options are.  I could… I suppose I could… look the other way while he does whatever he’s planning, but,” here she stopped and let out a sharp breath.  “When in all the Void did this _happen?_   How?  How is it I can keep tabs on what’s going on in a whole _city_ , but my own relationship is falling down around my ears?  How does that make any sense?"

There was a swell of raucous laughter from below, surging up the stairwell like a cresting wave; the noise subsided with clinking tankards and cries of “Deal again!”  Whatever game was going on downstairs, Eliza envied the players; she was beginning to feel as if she were stuck in an interminable game of Wicked Grace, trying to play her way through with a hand of blank cards.

Varric glanced up at the noise, smiling mirthlessly at either it or Eliza, before saying, “Oh, it makes sense, and you wouldn't be the first person to tell that story. Don't beat yourself up for not noticing.  Could be Blondie didn't want you to notice."

She swept up what remained of the envelope into cupped hands and rose from her chair, dumping the strips of paper into the fire.  They caught and curled and blackened into flakes of ash almost immediately.  “And what if that's the case?" she asked.

"You try talking to him?"

Eliza shook her head with a frown.  “I haven’t been able to.  _Any_ sort of conversation is awkward these days.  If I want to talk, he evades the topic, deflecting, talking circles around it, changing the subject..." She stared down into the flames a moment.  "I can accomplish a great deal with brute force, but I can't make the man who presumes to love me talk about a subject he doesn’t want to.  It's not even diplomacy I'm lacking, it's…"

"Oh, I know exactly what you're lacking.  In fact, it's not what you're lacking; it's what you've got that's making this so hard."

Turning back to the table, Eliza plucked up the knight-captain’s note and returned to the fire.  “And what's that?"

"You're too... forthright,” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him, watching as she tore tiny pieces off the note, dropping them into the flames.  “Not your fault; it's just who you are.  You shoot straight and you're, well.  Hate to be the one to tell you, Hawke, but you're _honest_.  You are a travesty to play cards with, and I’m not the only one who says so.”

“I am _not_ a travesty at the card table,” she shot back, glaring at him.  

“Complete travesty.”

The note in her hands forgotten, Eliza stared at Varric for several very long beats of silence, pushing past his remark about cards— _definitely not a travesty_ —and read the look in Varric’s eyes and the set of his jaw more closely.  “Are you saying I shouldn't... expect honesty from Anders?"  Because, truly, she’d started to come to that conclusion on her own. 

Varric shook his head.  “What I’m saying, is that's why it took you this long to see it in the first place."

She looked away, staring into the flames dancing in the hearth, muttering, “And now that I see it, I wish I could un-see it."  With a frustrated flick of her wrist, she dropped the rest of the letter into the fire.

At that, Varric pushed out of his chair and came over to hers, clapping a hand on her back and saying, “No, I don't think you really do.  Listen—meet with this templar. With all the blood-mages we've come across so far, it can't hurt having a little bit of an edge if you can get it.  If Blondie wants to take this personally?  Well, that's his decision."

She looked down at the note as flames licked hungrily at the paper, swallowing it up on all sides.  The knight-captain’s writing was small and controlled, but meticulously _neat_.  He wrote in an unerringly straight line — not the hand of someone who made a habit of bending rules.  Then, in almost no time at all, the fire ate away the parchment, turning it as black as the ink the knight-captain had used. “It still feels… wrong,” she admitted quietly.  “Like I’m, like I’m siding with the _enemy_ after all this time.”

This made Varric let out a deep sigh as he returned to his seat and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.  “Listen, Hawke.  It’s probably not the most popular opinion you’re going to hear, but since you’re the only one to hear it, I’m not about to start losing any sleep over it.  But this mess we’ve got in Kirkwall?  I don't think any _one_ side is the single enemy here.  Both are kinda shitty, if you ask me.  Even I've noticed Blondie's getting pretty..." he trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, clearly possessing the words, but not wanting to say them out loud.

Eliza had a fair guess what he was getting at.  The same had occurred to her.  “Obsessed?"

"Single-minded with a healthy dose of paranoia,” Varric answered, with a distracted flick of his hand.  “So yeah, I'm worried he's blasting fireballs at shadows.  And if he's not careful, he's going to hit someone who doesn't deserve it."  He shot her a pointed look and there was no question to whom he was referring.

Eliza brushed a flake of red wax off the table.  “So you think I'm merely broadening my horizons.  Acquiring new skills?”

Varric nodded, adding, “I think you learn anything that keeps a blood-mage from doing harm to yours truly can't be a bad thing.  And I think that knight-captain seems like he'd listen to reason, at least.  All I’m saying is no harm can come from _talking_ to the guy.”

“While leaving out the part where I’m sleeping with one of Kirkwall’s most noted apostates.”

The look Varric gave her was shrewd.  “My understanding was you had to be in a bed with someone _at the same time_ for you to be sleeping with them.”


	4. Chapter 4

Eliza hadn’t expected Varric to want to accompany her to the spot on the Wounded Coast Cullen had designated. When she told him as much, he only shrugged and kept on walking.

“Maybe I like nature.”

“Varric, you hate nature.   You hate everything about nature.  You hate nature almost as much as you hate being underground.”  She paused.  “Actually, I’d wager you hate nature more than you hate being underground; there isn’t any nature underground.”

“Which means I hate going underground more than I hate nature.  The whole lack-of-nature thing should be a draw, but it isn’t.”

She sent him a rather pointed sidelong glance.  “But you still hate nature.”

“What I love is a story.  Maybe I think there’s a story here, huh?”

Eliza paled, her steps slowing to a halt.  “Maker, I hope you’re kidding.”

He took one look at her face, read every last one of her fears, and sighed.  “You might need me, Hawke.”

“Need you?” she echoed.  “What, you honestly think I’m in danger from the templar knight-captain?”

“No.  No, I actually don’t think that,” he admitted.  “But I do know what a shit liar you are.  The wrong person—the wrong _anyone_ —comes along and sees you all alone in a deserted cove with a templar, and some people might get,” he paused dramatically, arching his eyebrows meaningfully at her, “the wrong idea.  That might be even worse than them getting the _right_ idea.”

Eliza thought for a second or two about that and grimaced, the blood draining from her face before it all rushed back at once, making her cheeks burn hot and, she was sure, _red_.

“Ah, see you finally caught up with me there.  Good.”

“People aren’t going to think… that,” she managed weakly.

“Please, Hawke.  I’ve _written_ that scenario before.”  Then he grinned at her and clapped a hand against her back.  “But fear not, my friend, I’ll be right there watching your back.”

She sighed.  “Fine.  _Fine._ ”  There was a sandy fork in the path and Eliza turned left, heading down toward the water.  Behind a rocky outcropping that looked a great deal like the mouth of a cave, a small area had been cleared—Cullen was still in the process of moving the largest bits of driftwood and detritus off to the side.  It was low tide and the water lapped gently in. 

He had, she could hardly believe, stripped from his heavy plate armor and wore a plain linen shirt and breeches.  Eliza considered her own armor — she’d worn it more to keep from arousing Anders’ suspicion than anything else, but he was gone from the house by the time she’d left.  Beneath the metal plate Eliza wore something very similar and she started to wonder just what the Knight Captain had in mind.

Eliza cleared her throat and Cullen looked up, smiling briefly before setting down the last waterlogged lengths of wood.

“I see you made it.”  He looked momentarily discomfited, adding, “I… had wondered if you’d received my note,” he remarked, his gaze sliding briefly to Varric and back again.

“Hey, I pass on messages to my friends,” Varric replied, a trifle defensively.

“Of course,” he said, bowing his head slightly.  “My apologies.  It’s only… well, I am still… unsure of whether I ought to be doing this at all.”

The dwarf slanted a look at Eliza, then back to Cullen, asking, “So, what, you figured since we were all here and got all dressed up anyway…?” 

“Honestly, Cullen,” Eliza began, “If you don’t think you ought to—“ But he cut her off, raising one hand and shaking his head.

“Though it is… a grave violation, I…I cannot help but think—“  He exhaled hard through his teeth and crossed his arms over his chest.  “Kirkwall is dangerous.  We both know this to be true.  And though you do… associate with known apostates,” and Eliza could not tell if Cullen’s stern look implied any double entendre, “I cannot doubt what I have seen of your character with my own eyes.  We live in… strange times, Hawke.  As strange as they are dangerous, if what I’ve already seen is any indication.  If you possessed these skills, it would be a benefit to _all_ of Kirkwall.  I do not question it is the _right_ thing to do.  My misgivings have to do with the consequences visited upon me should Knight-Commander Meredith discover what I’ve done—what you’re asking of me would earn me more than a mere reprimand.  My concerns lie not with the Maker, but with my superior officer.”

“Well that’s… encouraging?  It’s hardly likely I’ll have cause to level a holy smite in Meredith’s company.  She’d probably do it first, anyway; she doesn’t seem the type to hesitate.”

Varric sent her a wry look.  “Pretty sure that word’s missing entirely from the knight-commander’s lexicon, Hawke.”

“Neither of you are mistaken on that score,” replied Cullen darkly. “In any event, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important it is we keep these sessions secret.”

Eliza gave a humorless smile.  “Convenient, as secrecy works very well for me.”  But Cullen only _looked_ at her for a moment and for a split second Eliza was certain he could see every one of her thoughts and fears written across her face.  She coughed into her first.  “At any rate, you’re here, and I’m… punctual.” She paused.  “And overdressed, it would seem.”

“Well, aside from my amor going a long way to identifying me…”  At her puzzled look, he explained, “I wouldn’t expect you to be able to identify the various signs of rank through armor, Hawke.  It took me years to figure it out.  All the same, that’s my point: I don’t want anyone who _does_ know the difference to be able to spot me here.  Worthy though I believe you are, this is the sort of thing—“

“That could get you in a lot of trouble,” Eliza said, a very unpleasant picture coming together very quickly.  “I think I’m beginning to understand,” she murmured, giving a sober nod and trying not to think about that.  About Meredith, who tolerated no deviation from order and duty.  About the consequences Cullen would surely experience if any news of these meetings got out.    

“It appears we understand one another.  Good.”  He bent to retrieve two wooden practice swords and tossed one to her; she caught it in midair and she held it out, testing its balance.  “I want to see how complete your formal training has been.”

Her lips twitched at the words _formal training._   “I hardly had swordmasters teaching me their secrets, but I think I do all right all the same.”  She nodded at his attire and asked, “Shall I disrobe in a similar fashion, then?”  The question was phrased lightly, almost playfully; Eliza never expected the sudden start in Cullen’s movements and the fiery blush upon his cheeks.

“I… uh.”  He coughed, averting his eyes.  His blush reached his hairline and Eliza’s brow twitched as she watched the templar go from self-assured to bashful in less time for a wave to crash on the shore.  “That is…”

Varric schooled his chuckle into a cough—very poorly—and took this opportunity to make a great show of sitting down upon a large, flat rock.  “Don’t worry, kids. I’m playing chaperone.  No gratuitous nudity on my watch.”

Now it was Eliza’s turn to blush.  “Varric, really.  I only meant—“ She gestured at Cullen.  “I’m wearing something similar under my armor.”

“Then by all means, Hawke,” Varric said with a grin, “strip.”

#

Several hours later, Eliza fell to her knees upon the damp sand and dropped the practice sword from trembling fingers.  Indeed, all the muscles in her arm—both arms, actually, and her shoulders, back, legs, and possibly even her baby toe—were trembling with exertion.  It was difficult not to be annoyed at herself for getting bested by a bloody _templar,_ of all people.

She’d probably have been a lot more annoyed with herself if Cullen himself didn’t look equally as wrecked as she.  He crouched down in the surf and splashed his face and head with water, standing and shaking the droplets free, reminding her vaguely of her hound.  Not that she would have admitted such a thing, particularly after he stood and Eliza realized the pale linen tunic he wore was soaked with equal parts salt water and sweat.  Because admitting something like that would have required her voice, which had left her just then, along with a goodly portion of her breath.

“Staring, Hawke,” muttered Varric under his breath as he pressed a full waterskin into her hands.  “Might wanna check the drool, too.”

“I am _not,_ ” she hissed, taking a long drink of water.  Varric only shot her a skeptical look before looking pointedly at Cullen, who was pulling his own supply of drinking water from his pack.  She rolled her eyes at Varric and greedily swallowed several gulps of fresh, cool water.

“So what do you say, Knight-Captain?” asked Varric.  “I prefer my weapons to be a little more point-and-shooty, so I’m hardly an expert, but you and Hawke looked pretty evenly matched.  Think she’s worthy?”

“I have never doubted Hawke’s prowess with a sword,” replied Cullen, taking another drink.  “I only found myself concerned that I did not know the extent of her training.”

“There’s more to it than slash and hack?”  

Eliza chuckled and settled back to sit on the sand.  “Forgive my friend.  He seems to think archers corner the market on finesse.”

“There’s a good bit more to a warrior’s skills than brute force,” Cullen told Varric, but the latter just chuckled.

“So I’m finding.”

“I’m afraid I’ve taken notice you never answered Varric’s question.  So tell me…”  Eliza paused and tilted her head at the templar, grinning.  “ _Am_ I worthy?”

“You’ve certainly been well trained.  Might I ask where you received such training?”

“My brother and I learned a great deal from each other—our father wasn’t… quite a deft hand with greatswords, but he did his best and we learned quite a lot from him—but once we joined King Maric’s army—“

“Ah,” Cullen said, nodding slowly.  “That would explain it.  Any holes in your training were soon filled.”

Eliza chuckled softly, remembering the nights she and Carver had groaned and groused over aching muscles and colorful bruises, using what little coin they had for poultices and health potions just so they’d be able to stand up and do it all over again the next day.  “And how,” she murmured, trying for a smile, but the memory was a bit too bittersweet for that.

Cullen read… _something_ in the expression she wore and frowned, saying, “I beg your pardon.  I… did not realize you had a brother.”

“He… didn’t make it out of Ferelden,” she explained, keeping her voice even as she looked down at her hands.  “Darkspawn.”

He started slightly and blinked, surprised.  “I… had no idea. I am sorry for your loss, Hawke.”

Eliza shook her head.  “It was… many years ago now.”

“That does not make the pain of loss any easier to bear.  However much it feels like it _ought_ to.”

She was… unprepared to talk about Carver.  Not now. Not with anyone.  The one person she might have spoken with wasn’t only out of her reach, but too angry with Eliza by half.  And currently Bethany’s resentment only served to make Eliza miss her brother more deeply.  Pushing the emotions aside, she took a deep, bracing breath and shoved forward a smile.  “Yes, well.  You were in the middle of complimenting me on my prowess with a sword, I believe?”

Varric shot her a _look_ , but Eliza blithely ignored it.  Cullen looked at her a moment, then inward, as if performing a series of complicated sums in his head.  For a moment she wondered if he was going to ask her any more about being in Maric’s army—or, Maker forbid, Ostagar.  But he did nothing of the sort.  When he looked at her, his gaze was strangely clear, which Eliza hadn’t been expecting.

“I have little doubt there is anything I can teach you that you won’t be able to learn.”

“Provided I keep your… tutelage a secret, which I’m sure goes without saying.”

“Indeed.”  Cullen looked at Varric.  “And I… expect you’ll continue bringing your chaperone along?”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, templar-boy.”  Varric grinned.  “I want to see Hawke make the glowy lights.”

“That may not happen for quite some time,” the templar chuckled.  “Since you are, for all intents and purposes, training as a templar, Hawke, I must insist upon adhering to a very specific routine for these training sessions of ours.  We will be splitting our time equally between prayer and meditation and the more… practical areas of training.”

“Swordplay,” Eliza supplied.  Cullen nodded.

“Indeed.  We will work up to the lower level skills and abilities, but it would be incredibly remiss of me to teach you to run before making sure you first understand the basic mechanics of walking.”

When Eliza looked over at Varric, he was arching an incredulous eyebrow at her. “Prayer and meditation?”

“I won’t be hurt if you bring something to read.”

#

By the time he’d returned to Templar Hall, Cullen’s hair and clothes were dry, but stiff with salt and sweat.  His armor hid most of the evidence, however, and not a soul questioned that he’d been meditating in solitude along the seaside.  He arrived with more than enough time to check in with Knight-Commander Meredith before his duty shift.

He’d been… wary of this moment from the start—facing his superior officer after having spent the morning in direct violation of her orders.  The Knight-Commander had closed ranks for a _reason_ , he’d been told—and he had no reason to doubt that there was a reason—but Cullen still wasn’t sure he _understood_ that reasoning _._   Of course, the soldier in him insisted it was not for him to understand his superior officer’s reasoning—his duty was to obey orders.  But neither could he ignore—or forget—that Hawke had been a great help in dealing with Tarohne and her ilk; Cullen knew _he’d_ been at a loss when faced with the vanishing recruits, and he was nothing but grateful for her assistance.  The Maker only knew how many more recruits would have been compromised if the blood mages had not been discovered and dealt with.

It was his sneaking suspicion that the Knight-Commander resented Hawke’s involvement, that she disliked being shown up in her own city, in front of her own men.  And a great deal about _that_ sat ill with Cullen.  The templars had a duty to keep Kirkwall safe—he understood that.  He understood that the dangers in Kirkwall were many, and that as the Free Marches went, Kirkwall appeared to have a higher concentration of… _oddities_ , compared to the other cities.  

Given that, it made sense that the templars ought not to be choosy about accepting help when it was offered, particularly when it was offered from someone who genuinely wanted to help—and was capable and qualified _to_ help.  It was not a time to close ranks and reject assistance simply for the sake of appearance and ego.

As Cullen sat in Knight-Commander Meredith’s office, he tried to find some… _hint_ of what was going on in the woman’s mind, but her face was inscrutable as ever.  When he stood to go, she looked up at him, her blue eyes impassive.

“I trust, Knight-Captain, you found the answers you were seeking during your meditations today?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” he answered evenly, offering no elaboration beyond, “The sea air was bracing—it provided a considerable measure of clarity.”

Meredith’s look grew vaguely shrewd, and the slight narrowing of her eyes told Cullen she was wondering about him, questioning yet again if Cullen’s own history and experiences at Kinloch Hold made him a liability.  He met her gaze steadily until she nodded to herself and turned her attention to a stack of correspondence on her desk.

“What you do during your off-duty hours is your business, Knight-Captain,” she said, rifling through the letters until she found the one she was looking for.  “Though I would much prefer it if such time devoted to meditation and contemplation was spent beneath the chantry’s roof.”  Meredith’s words hovered strangely between permission and disapproval, as if she dearly _wanted_ to make it an order, but knew she could not.  Not yet, anyway.

Cullen had no desire to press his luck, and with a sharp salute, departed for his duty shift the very moment the Knight-Commander dismissed him.  

Strangely, as the day wore on, Cullen slowly realized that for all he’d misled the Knight-Commander regarding his activities that morning, he had told less of a falsehood than he’d originally thought.  He’d arrived at the designated spot early and had indeed spent time in prayer and meditation before Hawke and her dwarf companion had shown up.  But the time they’d spent sparring had been surprisingly _relaxing._ The entire exercise _had_ done a great deal to clear his head, and it was a pleasant change to cross swords with someone wasn’t afraid to best him _or_ lose to him.  Such wasn’t the case with many of the men—some men felt a perverse need to prove themselves against the knight-captain in the sparring ring, while others feared reprisal if they fought too well against him—this was, of course, patently absurd.  But, despite the absurdity, Cullen feared that particular attitude was a direct result of Knight-Commander Meredith’s influence; she seldom trained with any of the men anymore, but there was a time when besting her in training meant an entirely unrelated stint of unpopular patrol routes for the offender in question.

Such had not been the case with Eliza Hawke.  Oh, she’d wanted to prove herself to him, of that Cullen had no doubt.  And he found her to be even more skilled than he’d initially thought, which had been a pleasant surprise.  But Hawke was neither interested in taking him down a peg or feeding his ego, and _that_ was what he’d found so refreshing about the session.

He still wasn’t certain sharing the templar skills was the wisest thing to do.  And Cullen had no doubt the consequences would be severe if his actions were discovered.  But he could not ignore all the _good_ Hawke had done in Kirkwall.  

Perhaps the _wisest_ course was not always the _right_ one.


	5. Chapter 5

Prayer and meditation.

Eliza had no doubt Cullen was entirely in earnest when he’d said those words, but for all she tried to prepare herself for prayer and meditation, Eliza was still surprised at just _how much_ prayer and meditation one person could be expected to do.  It was always a relief when Cullen called an end to the spiritual training, allowing them to move on to the more practical pursuits.  It was always— _always_ a relief when it came time to stretch cramped muscles and _move._   Eliza Hawke was learning—and it was an unpleasant lesson indeed—she did not enjoy being alone with her thoughts.  And though she far preferred it to her spiritual training, the physical training, unsurprisingly, was demanding.  Eliza would not have quite called it “grueling,” but it was hard work, beyond a shadow of doubt.

Prayer, meditation, and swordplay—the lessons were always structured thus and, gradually, days passed, turning slowly into weeks as Eliza and Cullen worked out a method of communication unlikely to be discovered, and a training schedule unlikely to arouse suspicion—but it was always prayer, meditation, and swordplay.  Always.

Varric remained their go-between, though Eliza could not help but feel involving him at all still held an element of risk; there were few in Kirkwall who didn’t know the well-connected dwarf, and fewer still who didn’t know he nearly always accompanied the Champion of Kirkwall on any number of errands.  Still, it was less risky than other methods of communication, and as long as discretion remained their watchword, there seemed little to worry about.  And there were plenty of excellent reasons to be discreet.

They continued meeting in that same spot along the Wounded Coast.  Not the safest spot, perhaps, but still the safest they had at their disposal.  More often than not, Varric accompanied her.  There were any number of reasons for this, she knew, and so Eliza never complained.  

Prayer. Meditation. Swordplay.  Over and over again.

Weeks passed, and after a month of these training sessions, Eliza had gradually come to _enjoy_ the meditation, and even the quietude prayer brought.  

Hard work, of course, had its benefits.  Her form was improving, and having a sparring partner other than Fenris forced Eliza to work—and _think_ —differently than she would have otherwise.  There hadn’t yet been talk of “glowy lights,” as Varric liked to term them, but Eliza could feel _something_ building with every training session.  Something was changing in her—her focus, her _will_ , all of the things that made her a warrior felt sharper these days, more honed.  She wondered fleetingly if this particular change had to do with the vast amounts of prayer and meditation the Knight-Captain had worked into their training.  Her frustration, her uncertainty, her _anger_ slowly settled within her. Her mind began to feel clearer than it ever had.  That in itself was a feat, for things in Kirkwall were growing more muddied by the day.

But that cherished clarity was not to last.

They were in the midst of a particularly brutal session, neither one giving quarter, both pushing the other as hard as they knew how.  

The muscles in Eliza’s arms bunched and throbbed as she swung, and Cullen raised his lightweight shield  in time for Eliza’s wooden sword to knock soundly against it, blocking her.  She felt the force of it all the way up her arms.  

“You know, you’re making it rather difficult for me _not_ to ask you to come and train some of the new recruits,” he panted, stopping only briefly to swipe a trickle of sweat from his eyes.

She shot him a fierce grin and adjusted her grip on the pommel, her steps light but quick as she searched for an opening, kicking up water as she moved; he had to lower that shield _sometime_ …  “Best me and I’ll think about it,” she replied, giving the sword a little swing as she pivoted, shifting her weight and sending her toes digging down into the cool, wet sand.

“So you can argue that I don’t _need_ you to train them up, since I bested you in a match?” he countered, stepping wide and to the right, circling her.

This, too, was an unexpected—and yet not unwelcome—outcome of their training sessions.  Conversation, slow and stilted in those early days, came more easily now.  

“Ah, uncovering all my tricks, Knight-Captain,” Eliza riposted with a wink.  Cold water rushed ankle-deep over her bare feet.  Eliza turned as Cullen advanced, lowering his shield as he swung his sword at hers.  Eliza lifted her own practice weapon and felt the force of wood smacking against wood, shuddering up her arms.  “You’re sneakier than I gave you credit for.”  Their weapons locked and she shifted her weight again—quickly—before pushing Cullen back with enough force to make him stumble backwards, kicking up droplets of water and flecks of sea foam.

“I beg your pardon; I am not ‘sneaky.’”  He recovered from his stumble and grinned at her before choosing another attack route and sliding into the pattern.

“Not sneaky?” Eliza tossed back as she lifted her sword against his and met the attack, a rapid series of light strikes—parries and thrusts—then spun away.  “What, then?  Crafty?  Cunning?  Wily?  _Ooh,_ devious?”

“Hardly.  And do you truly expect me to continue training you by insulting my character so readily… and loquaciously?

She offered a quick mock-curtsey.  “I do most humbly beg your pardon, ser, Knight-Captain, ser.”  But then the curtsey turned into a spin and she swung her sword up and brought it slicing down again.

A snort of laughter as he swung his shield up to meet her sword-strike.  “ _Humble._ Do tell me another, Hawke.”

“I am _quite_ humble.  Tell him, Varric.”

But there came no reply from the dwarf.  Indeed, the rock he frequently made his seat was vacant, and Bianca was absent.

“Lookout duty,” supplied the Knight-Captain, slamming his shield against her sword when she made the mistake of looking over for her friend.

Eliza snorted and blocked the next of Cullen’s shield-slams.  “Translation: he went in search of a quiet spot to write another chapter of that guard serial that’s got Aveline in fits.”

“ _Hard in Hightown?_ ”

 _That_ had been nearly enough to make Eliza trip then and there, but she recovered at the last.  “ _What?_ ”

The templar’s face was already flushed with exertion, but that didn’t quite hide the shade of pink that crept up to his ears.  “Er.  The men, you see.  Read it.  Horrible stuff.  Really.”

She smirked.  “I’ll let him know he’s got a fan.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Cullen replied, somewhat plaintively.

Just then, the opening Eliza been waiting for finally revealed itself and she flashed her teeth in another smile as she lunged forward, angling her way between Cullen’s sword and shield, letting her own sword come to rest gently against the side of his neck.  Cullen went entirely still and lowered his weapons, breathing hard as he looked down at her.

Still smiling, Eliza panted out, “I win.”

He still looked at her, quietly amused.  His eyebrow twitched.  “So it would seem.”

“‘So it would seem’ isn’t _quite_ the same thing as ‘I yield,’ Cullen.”

Suddenly he darted back and turned with speed and grace she’d never expected from one so tall and broad, dropping his shield as he dipped and swung the length of his wooden sword hard against the backs of her legs, knocking them out from under her and sending Eliza backwards, and with a yelp of surprise, into the surf.  The water was _cold_ and she yelped again, a higher, shriller sound as it shocked her skin and soaked her clothes.  The wet sand gave beneath her as she landed and she could feel the grit of it seeping down the neck of her shirt.

“Cheater!” she cried, struggling to sit up, but as the waves crashed in, more water rolled over her, the undertow strong enough to make such an endeavor more difficult.  “Sneaky, crafty, cunning, devious _cheater_!”

Not bothering to hide his laugh, Cullen shook his head and stood over her, offering a hand up. “You forgot wily.”

“I did not.”  Eliza took the proffered hand and _pulled_ , sending him tumbling forward with a hoarse, surprised shout, landing awkwardly on top of her.  “I was saving that one for myself.”

“And rightfully so, it would seem,” he said, chuckling as he pushed himself onto his elbows and knees.  “ _Maker_ , but this water’s cold.”

“Should’ve thought of that before sending me toppling into it.”  Eliza was already shaking with laughter.  “So, did you enjoy that?”

“The being yanked headlong into the surf?” asked Cullen, still braced upon his elbows, looking down at her.  “Not as much as you’d expect, I fear.”

With a sharp poke to his ribs—enough to make _him_ yelp—Eliza tilted her chin up and gave him a look.  “No.  The part where you sent me sprawling back _into_ the surf.”

“Oh.  Yes, I rather enjoyed that part.  Very much, in fact.”

“I could tell.”

Logically, Eliza knew the moment was soon coming that Cullen would  push himself to his feet and help Eliza to hers, and they would continue on with their training.  She bit her lip and saw his eyes dart down to her mouth, then back up again.  

The moment came.  The moment went.  Several more moments did the same.

And still neither spoke.

The roar of the ocean settled into the background, a soft, rushing pulse as Eliza leant up, eliminating the few inches between them only long enough to brush her mouth softly, briefly against his.  It was barely a kiss at all, for all that her heart was pounding, but the contact, as chaste and fleeting as it was, sent a jolt of _something_ shuddering through her and she sucked in a breath, willing her body not to tremble.

Cullen blinked as he stared down at her, obviously processing what had happened in those last few seconds.  His voice was strained.  “Hawke…”

“I’m sorry.  I…”  _I what?  I couldn’t help myself?_   True as it was, she couldn’t say the words.  She had no business being with him _like this,_ in this capacity.  Things were already complicated enough—Kirkwall, Anders, Maker, her _life_ was complicated enough—there was no point in adding to it.  “I… shouldn’t have presumed…”

An eternity stretched out between them; Eliza’s breaths coming faster and more ragged, until finally Cullen simply shook his head, muttering, “Maker forgive me,” before lowering his head and closing his mouth over hers.

The suddenness of it made Eliza gasp as her eyes slid shut, her hands dragging a path up Cullen’s arms—her gasp turned into a groan as the muscles in his arms flexed and jumped under her palms—her arms coming to wrap slowly around his neck, pulling him down even as she pulled herself up into the kiss.  He sank against her, and their combined weight only made them dip further into the wet sand as the tide came in around them.

The kiss, though urgent, had a strange sort of sweetness to it, as if Cullen were trying so very hard to be gentle—or if he wasn’t sure how _not_ to be gentle—and urgency and enthusiasm were grinding away the tenderness.  Eliza groaned again, shifting beneath him and fisting one hand in the collar of his shirt, while the other clenched in his hair.  This time she _felt_ him groan in return and Eliza’s arms tightened around him as she let her lips part, dragging the tip of her tongue experimentally across his lower lip.  His resultant inhale was sharp and sudden—almost a gasp—as he pressed into the kiss, returning it in kind.  When the warm, hesitant caress of his tongue met first her lips, then her tongue as Cullen grew bolder and the kiss deeper, Eliza arched, fairly crying out into his mouth, fingers clenching, eyes screwed shut, toes curling as she sent up a mad prayer to the Maker that this moment might never end.  It didn’t matter they were both soaked, both covered in grit and cold salt water; Eliza clung, her arms tight around Cullen’s neck, mewling and whimpering the moment his hands found her waist—and they stayed there, a tiny, still-functioning part of her mind noted.

The kiss broke and left them both breathless, both too shocked at their actions to do much else beyond stare at each other in quiet disbelief, flushed and panting.  

She found she could summon nothing more than a ragged whisper.  “What were we saying?” 

Cullen swallowed hard, looking as if he were trying to remember, but having difficulty latching on to one coherent thought.  “You… were asking me if I’d enjoyed that.”

“Oh.  Yes.”  She licked her lips, the taste of salt water and that kiss mingling upon them.  “Well.  Did you?”

“The… sending you into the surf or… the… other parts?”

Eliza dared not move, dared not _breathe_ , despite the fact that the urge was building to simply arch her body against his, to press and writhe and lock her legs around his waist, so startling was the heat, the _want_ coursing through her.  Instead, she swallowed.  “Ah.  The… other parts?”

His thumb stroked slow circles against the curve of her waist—enough to make her let out a shuddering sigh, which, from his expression, he hadn’t been expecting.  “I… liked it well enough that any guilt I might have otherwise felt for deceiving you and sending you tumbling into the water has been well and truly erased.”

“I don’t recommend doing it again,” she replied in an arch murmur.

“Which part?”

With a soft huff of laughter, Eliza leant up again, pressing her lips once more to Cullen’s in answer.

Varric did not return until they were both upright again and mostly dry.  If he noticed anything seemed different between the two, he made no mention of it.  Just another training session — prayer, meditation, and swordplay.  The sun was high and bright in the sky by the time Eliza returned home.  She washed, changed, and checked her correspondence.  She accepted work.  She spoke with companions and contacts.  She did all she would have otherwise done, determined to put the incident out of her mind. 

 That night, before bed, Eliza meditated.

It didn’t help.

#

What under all the Maker’s blue sky had he _done?_

It was the first time since his initial training session with Hawke that Cullen felt certain the Knight-Commander could turn her all-knowing gaze directly inside his skull and witness every last one of his recent transgressions down to the most minute detail.  He knew this was could not possibly be the case, but that did not mitigate the creeping sensation of guilt that made the tips of his ears burn.

His shift passed in agony while he replayed that morning’s session over and over again in his memory.  Where— _where_ had he gone wrong?

Well, besides the obvious place, of course.  _Maker,_ how could he have been such an _idiot?_

It wasn’t that Eliza Hawke was… unattractive.  Not in the least.  Her grey eyes were a sharp, flinty contrast to rich auburn hair.  She was tall and long-limbed, which was as practically useful as it was aesthetically appealing—she wielded her greatsword with unmistakable ease.  She was clever, with a dry wit he particularly enjoyed—their attempts at small talk, halting and awkward (Maker, so very awkward) at first, slowly unfurled into engaging, thought-provoking conversation.  Hawke was an attractive, capable woman, whose company and conversation Cullen enjoyed.  That much was true.  But she was also someone he _respected_ , someone who’d come to him requesting his assistance—asking his _help_ —and he’d overstepped his bounds entirely.

How could “enjoying her company” have gone so wrong, so _fast?_

 _Clearly this cannot continue,_ came the firm thought as he stood sentry over the Gallows _._ He thought it again every time Meredith made her rounds.  He thought it yet _again_ with every new recruit and grizzled veteran that saluted him.

 _I know it, and doubtless_ Hawke _knows it.  I would not blame her a whit if she were to call an end to her training._

However, despite Cullen’s existing concerns and misgivings, which competed admirably against his new ones, nothing in the Knight-Commander’s demeanor indicated that she suspected him of doing anything beyond making trips to the Wounded Coast to meditate by the sea.  She still didn’t _approve_ of such outings, but since they were taken during what free time he had, she still could not forbid him.  Meredith _could_ , however—and Cullen knew it to be true—reduce his off-duty time.  She could even, if the whim hit her, arrange his shifts in such a way that “off-duty” occurred in the middle of the blighted night.  Still, for now he was only faced with her badly-concealed annoyance and her increasingly pointed remarks—which were growing more and more difficult to pretend to ignore—that the Maker preferred His devotees to meditate and pray in His house.  

At least he hadn’t been stripped of rank and locked in a cell somewhere; given that small comfort, Cullen had to assume she didn’t know what had transpired _that_ morning.

 _No matter_ , Cullen decided, as he performed his evening ablutions in his cramped, candlelit quarters, and knelt down to pray before retiring for the night.  _Whatever did or did not happen today, it will not happen again._

It _could_ not.


	6. Chapter 6

The thin amber stream of honey disappeared into the tea as the spoon went round and round, the soft _plink-plink_ the only sounds in the otherwise deserted library.  Eliza sat at her desk, her breakfast all but untouched, staring at the swirl of liquid as the honey dissolved.  Her thoughts were in a similar swirl, but whereas the honey would eventually melt into the hot tea, her thoughts were not nearly as obliging.

There was no point in ruminating over what she’d done.  Done was done, and there was no going back and undoing it.  The thing was, _would_ she have undone it?  That was the prickly question with an equally prickly answer.

She wasn’t sure.

Oh, she was well and truly displeased with herself—it was inexcusable, the way she’d behaved.  And things weren’t… well they weren’t _over_ between her and Anders, even if she didn’t know exactly what _was_ going on there.  They still lived under the same roof.  They still… appeared to have a relationship, even if that appearance faded more by the day.

All the same, it was the first time in a long time she’d kissed someone and… _felt_ something.

 _Yes,_ she thought wryly, making a face at herself as she put the honey aside, _made evident by the fact that you didn’t stop immediately._

Intellectually, Eliza was perfectly aware it ought not to have happened.  But if she removed intellect—and honor—from the equation entirely, she flushed with embarrassment to admit she’d _liked_ it.

 _This is no time for silly games,_ Eliza chastised silently _.  If he’ll even_ see _you again—and that much is doubtful—you need to focus your efforts on what you’re_ meant _to be doing with him._ Which was learning the templar arts, and when you got right down to it, it was near impossible to determine which was the bigger breach of trust—getting templar training, or kissing the templar doing the training.  She’d done some foolish things before, but Maker, this one was a doozy.  

Lifting the cup to her lips, Eliza took a sip—a hair sweet, though not undrinkable—and tried to get her thoughts in order for the day.  Write to Cullen, somehow.  Apologize.  See if he’ll agree to continue training her, and then—

A whisper of movement by the door pulled Eliza’s thoughts away from both the tea and the day’s unfolding itinerary.  She looked up to find Anders standing by the library door, an empty cup in hand.  He gave her a tentative smile and nodded at the teapot on her desk.

“Do you mind if I poach?”

“No,” she said quietly, doing—she thought—an admirable job of hiding her surprise at his presence.  She couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared a meal, never mind a cup of _tea_ , together.  And now he was standing there like… well, no, not like nothing had happened.  If anything, his expression hovered somewhere around _sheepishness_.  “No, not at all.”  She pushed her chair away from her desk.  “Help yourself.”

Anders took the teapot and, with a flash of mana, warmed it until steam once again issued from the spout.  He poured himself a cup and began drizzling honey in.

“Careful,” she heard herself saying.  “It’s potent.”

The smile he shot her was slightly crooked.  “Oversweetened your own again, did you?”

The jibe, however gentle, caused a twinge in her heart.  Not because the words had been mean-spirited—just the opposite.  Too many days, too many _weeks_ had passed in silence, the two of them barely seeing each other, barely speaking, and such comfortable familiarity _ached._   It was too painful a reminder of the mornings they’d lounged in bed, the sun streaming through the windows, casting warm patches upon her skin, and the only things warmer were Anders’ hands, his lips upon the soft skin of her shoulder, the nape of her neck...  

“Yes,” she answered roughly, clearing her throat and shoving a smile forward.  “My mind wandered a moment, and the next thing I knew, the tea was half honey.”

He smiled then, and the bittersweet wave of nostalgia prickled uncomfortably.  It was not the open, guileless smile she’d once treasured—the type he only ever gave when they were alone, after they’d shucked the day’s worries at the door and locked themselves away in the bedroom, shut off from the rest of the world.  No.  This smile… did not quite reach his eyes.

 _He wants something,_ came the sudden, unpleasant thought.  And with that thought, Eliza—slowly, and by very gradual degrees—went tense.  Incongruously, a there came a stab of guilt for her suspicion and tried to shove it back down from wherever it had sprung.  She took a deep breath and held it, turning her gaze to the tea in her cup.

“Anders…” she began, not quite sure where she wanted to start or what she wanted to say.  There came the strangest urge to _confess_ something to him, but she didn’t know what.  She had two options, after all, and both instances were so intertwined that Eliza could hardly confess to one without the other making its way into the conversation.  And which was the greater transgression, anyway?  She had a feeling—a strong one—Anders would have found her seeking out a templar to teach her the Order’s specialized skill-set to be the worse sin.  

“Yes?” he asked, helping himself to one of the scones on her tray, spreading black currant jam across the craggy surface.

Instead of the confession she’d initially considered, came out instead was, “Tell me.”

The knife hovered over the scone, still coated in jam.  “What?”

“Tell me,” Eliza said again, so softly, barely willing to give voice to the words, wishing more than anything right then that the man she’d loved—the one she’d once believed loved her—would speak plainly to her, “what you did.”

Anders didn’t move, scarcely breathed, and for a moment he looked as if he were going to deflect again.  “You would not thank me if I told you.”

Eliza turned the cup in a slow circle, the porcelain scraping almost musically against the desk, and considered her words and actions, past as well as present.  “No, Anders, I would I—I’m tired of lies, of deceit.”  And she was—tired to the bone and the very marrow within them.  Her words were not a plea, but a simple, painful statement of fact.  “I… cannot live like this.”

He blinked once.  Twice.  “Live like this?” he echoed, arching an incredulous eyebrow at her.  “Might I remind you you’re the one who’s gone haring off on mysterious errands, taking no one but Varric—tell me, who’s being deceitful now?”

Eliza’s head jerked back as if he’d slapped her, her mind racing to piece together what he could have seen, what assumptions he could have made.  “A wonder you’re aware of my comings and goings at all,” came her frosty retort.  “I can’t remember the last time you were even in the clinic you claim means so much to you.”

“You’ve been checking up on me?”

“I’ve been _looking for you._   Every night— _every night_ I check the clinic, to see if you’re _there_ so I can ask you to come to bed.  You never are.  The doors are locked and the lantern is dim, so tell me now, who’s haring off on mysterious errands?” And this time it was his turn to stare, shocked, as if he’d been the one struck.  Perhaps he thought she’d simply take him at his word.  If that was the case, Anders didn’t know her half as well as he thought he did.  “I know you’ve not been in the clinic when you say you’ve been.  So where _have_ you been, if not there?”

He didn’t answer.  For a very long time, Anders didn’t utter a single syllable.  Instead he was looking at her with new eyes—not the crackling blue of the entity living inside him, but rather eyes that had never seen her before now, not really.

“I do not deny it.”

“Well, that’s a first.”

“But,” he added, bracing both hands on the desk and looking down at her, “it would seem we are both keeping secrets, as I see you do not deny taking Varric and Varric alone on these errands.  So where do you go, I wonder?”  His pause was a weighty one, full of innuendo.  “What do you do?”

Panic blossomed deep in Eliza’s belly— _how could he know?_ —and then faded and fizzled away once she heard, once she _understood_ the accusatory, jealous note in his voice.  He did not know what she’d been doing—Anders didn’t even _suspect_ it.  

That wasn’t to say Anders was entirely without his suspicions.  Once Eliza put together the pieces and listened to what it was he was saying, her mind stuttered to a stop, backtracked, and put the pieces together over again, because there was _no way possible_ he was implying what she thought he was implying.

Eliza’s mouth worked silently for a moment before she found her voice.  “Are you honestly— _honestly_ accusing me of an affair with Varric?  For the Maker’s sake, _Varric?”_ She’d have laughed at the absurdity of it if Anders own expression hadn’t been so completely without mirth.  “This. _This_ is what you’re accusing me of?  You come to bed hours before dawn, barely long enough to warm the sheets, refuse to tell me where you’ve been or what you’ve done, and… _Varric?_   Have you truly lost your only mind?”

He clenched his jaw and a muscle jumped beneath the skin.  “Isn’t it enough I admitted to you there was no potion?”

“No,” she replied coldly, “it isn’t.”

“It will have to be.”

Planting both hands on her desk, Eliza levered herself to her feet and leaned forward.  Anger, hot and bright and _so very focused_ lit beneath her breast, and as she drew in breath to speak, she felt something.  _Something._   Something that defied explanation gathered along her spine and upward, building pressure at the base of her neck.  Something made the air in her lungs come alive with a spark, leaving her breathless, like a deep inhale taken on a frozen morning.  The world was clear and crisp and thrown into such sharp focus her head throbbed with it.  Colors were too bright, sounds were too clear.  Everything in the library, from the ticking of the clock to the crackle of the fire in the grate to Anders’ own labored breaths slowed down and the room swam with sound and color and _presence._

Then it was gone and Eliza’s knees wobbled a little as she gripped the edge of her desk.  _What in all the Void was_ that?  When no answers were immediately forthcoming, she closed her eyes and took in several slow, deep breaths.

“You lied to me,” she said, once she was able.

Anders gave her a look that was almost pitying, and picked up his scone and tea as he turned for the door.  Halfway there, he stopped and said, over his shoulder, “In the grand scheme of things, one lie—one single, solitary lie—means little, Eliza.”

She looked down at her own breakfast, her appetite forgotten.  

“It matters to _me._ ”


End file.
